Jack nodded as he gazed ahead in search of the Cove.
“That’s me. And you’re Harry Folsom. Catch any fish?”
CHAPTER III
A Pair of Amateur Salts
A quarter of an hour later the three boys were sitting about the “air-tight” stove in the front room of the little, white, clap-boarded, green-shuttered house that was Jack’s home. They had left the Crystal Spring safely moored in the Cove, with the motor boat swinging astern, dropped into the little dory and paddled ashore. From the little beach up to the Herrick house was but a few yards, and in a trice they were inside, listening to the surprised ejaculations of Aunt Mercy and dripping water onto the immaculate waxed floor of the “passage.” Aunt Mercy Fuller was Jack’s mother’s sister, and ever since Mrs. Herrick had died, when Jack was only four years old, the sharp-voiced, kind-hearted little woman had kept house at the Cove. After the death of Jack’s father, only a year ago, Aunt Mercy’s presence was more indispensable than ever, for Jack’s sister, Faith, was only thirteen, and so, still in school. All of Jack’s dry clothing had been requisitioned and the drafts in the stove opened wide, and now, none the worse for their wetting, the two visitors were recounting their adventures to the household.
Harry Folsom was nearly Jack’s age, being some three months younger. He was like Jack in many ways, for which the fact that each came of an old Greenhaven family was perhaps accountable. Harry’s hair was of quite an ordinary shade of dark brown and his face was not tanned and seasoned by sun and weather. And his eyes were gray instead of brown. But dissimilarity seemed to end there. He was much like Jack in build and weight and he had the same easy, careless swing from the hips when he walked, and the same way of looking straightly and unwinkingly when he talked. Harry’s father was Josiah Folsom, the head of the big fish company of Greenhaven, and a man of much wealth. He and Jack had been together at high school the year before, but last fall Jack had left school to sail the Crystal Spring and Harry, or Hal, as he was called, had entered Norwalk Hall, the big preparatory school some thirty miles distant and just over the line into New Hampshire.
His companion Hal had introduced as Beaman Mansfield. Harry called him Bee and so we might as well do the same. Bee was visiting Harry, it seemed, having arrived with him in Greenhaven only the evening before. They were roommates at school and evidently great chums. Beaman Mansfield was fifteen years of age, slight, tall, black of hair and eye, and almost sallow as to complexion. As Harry narrated their exploits Bee interpolated remarks which, if they were not especially informative, seldom failed to amuse.
“You see,” said Harry, “that launch is a new one. Dad got it for me a week ago and I never saw it until yesterday. This morning we thought it would be a good plan to go for a sail in her. So we filled her tank with gasoline and started out. I’d never run a motor boat before, but Bee said he knew something about the things—”